


Speak (I Don't Know How)

by mag_and_mac



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Adrien Agreste Needs Help, Adrien Agreste Needs a Hug, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Depressed Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Depression, Hot Mess Adrien Agreste, I Don't Even Know, If You Squint - Freeform, Metaphors, No Beta, Not Beta Read, Protect Adrien Agreste, References to Depression, Sad Adrien Agreste, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, and know what youre looking for, he is sad, i guess, i hid a bunch of sad stuff with metaphors and stuff, idk - Freeform, im just tired, no beta we die like meh, this makes no sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 03:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_and_mac/pseuds/mag_and_mac
Summary: He was the personification of almost. A living, breathing ‘close enough’.





	Speak (I Don't Know How)

He was supposed to be smart.

He was supposed to know things.

He had mastered four languages, and still somehow never knew what to say.

How could he convey the mess that was his mind in a simple string of letters? How could he explain how his mind was screaming and pounding and rushing and whispering and silent and dark, all at the same time? That was an impossible feeling. It could only be written in impossible words.

How could he sit down, and with a pen in his hand try to tell his friends that in a world of billions of people, he didn’t know a single one. Not a single one knew him.

How could he tell Nino that, yes, he did review the playlist he had put together, and yes, it sounded amazing, but he couldn’t hear the music anymore? Who can’t hear music?

_“Yeah, it sounded great, bro. There are no words to even begin to describe it.”_

Alya had taken to sending him her articles to revise before she published them. Why did she do that? He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t know how to say anything. How to write anything. 

_“Yeah, looks good for publishing. Nice word choice, by the way.”_

Was he supposed to think about how he wouldn’t matter? In the long run. In a hundred years, who would care about a pretty face who jumped off a building? In three centuries would any of his life matter? What was the point of that? Who dictated that life had to have meaning? He was just a jumble of neurons on an unknown rock in an unknown galaxy with unknown problems and impossible thoughts.

It didn’t matter if that wasn’t normal.

He couldn’t ask if it was.

He couldn’t ask for anything.

He didn’t know how.

He hadn’t talked to Ladybug for a while.

Was that okay?

Did it matter?

He had talked to Marinette. He liked her. She was always nice to him. At first he didn’t know why. He had almost resigned himself to a life of not understanding anything, but eventually he had figured it out on his own, never having to ask. That’s just how she was.

Some people were just naturally nice, pretty, talented, and warm. 

He was destined to a left eye that was slightly smaller than his right. A slight off-white tint to his teeth. Short eyelashes, and almost perfect grades. A cold bed and cold hands and dusty picture frames of a family he could no longer recognize but was almost sure was once his. He almost knew happiness. He almost knew himself. Almost knew how things worked and why things happened and why he was the way he was.

He was the personification of almost. A living, breathing ‘close enough’. 

Was that impossible?

Was he?

There weren’t enough words on the planet.

Not enough words to explain the way his smile fell.

Not enough words to show the way it didn’t slip. It didn’t crash or cry. It wilted and withered and crumbled with excruciatingly slow speeds because his life hadn’t imploded and burned, it had decayed and stuttered, and it was enough to show that he was far from okay, but not enough to explain why.

He couldn’t say anything. His mind had long since ceased it’s screams of _Don’t Speak, Don’t Speak, Don’tSpeakDon’tSpeakDon’t-_. He didn’t need that anymore. He had forgotten how to speak. 

It was all so impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

“What’s wrong?”

That was Marinette. She was impossible. She was too nice to be so flawed. She was too careful to be so clumsy. She was imperfect. Could that exist? His father had said flaws were perfections to the poor. But she was flawed and rich. She was rich in contradictions and beauty and generosity, and he wanted all of those. She always knew what to say. She always knew the right words. He needed those.

“I don’t,” He choked, “I don’t know.”


End file.
